


Meet the Author

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, Children's Author Newt, Crushes, M/M, Meet-Cute, Reluctant Babysitter Uncle Hermann, dumb little bday ficlet for ericaaaaa, some random niece/nephew OCs who are only there as plot vehicles, various Gottlieb Personae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Popular children's author Dr. Newton Geiszler is doing a book signing, and Hermann--for reasons that have nothing to do with the man's writing career--is eager to go.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 13
Kudos: 97





	Meet the Author

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeleton_twins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/gifts).



> HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY ERICA!!! sorry this took me so long to get to finishing!!! its just a dumb little fic but (shrug) this was based on a tumblr post of hers she made a few weeks ago (i can't find it now but)

Hermann is not an egotistical man, nor does he have any overblown sense of his own intellect, but he thinks you’d be hard-pressed to present him with a topic about which he wouldn’t be _some_ form of knowledgeable. Hermann can tell you how the very stars themselves were formed. He can solve any maths problem you set in front of him. He knows how to knit rather comfortable turtleneck sweaters—how to win in a fight with, and without, his cane—how, if he’s feeling up to it, to play sonatas on a piano that could move the most cold-hearted to tears.

Unfortunately, Hermann’s vast, encyclopedic knowledge cannot be endless, and is thus bound to fail him in some respects.

He knows bugger all about children.

One child in particular.

“You ought to understand, really,” he tells the bookshop cashier, “I’ve not spoken to my _brother_ in years, let alone his _children_.” He hums, distastefully. “Really— _any_ children.” There is a toddler who lives on the first floor of Hermann’s flat complex, nose perpetually runny, clothing perpetually stained with dirt and food and heavens know what else, and Hermann’s morning routine includes avoiding his grabby fists at all costs as he makes a beeline from the lobby elevator. This is the one semblance of a relationship he has with anyone under thirty. Well, aside from his undergraduates, who often tend to be just as snotty and messy as toddlers. And now he’s just expected to _waltz_ into a tenth birthday party as if he has any bloody idea what he’s doing. “I’m quite desperate,” he finally confesses. “Really, at my wit’s end. Haven’t you _any_ suggestions?”

“We have an entire section of children’s books,” the cashier points out.

“Yes,” Hermann says, having acquainted himself with that section about eleven minutes ago, “but they’re so…” He waves his hand. “ _Juvenile_.”

Gottliebs, Hermann muses, have always been an odd breed. Too subdued; too intellectual; too damned bloody _precocious._ Father upheld their studies with an iron fist and played them against one another all throughout their childhoods, to the extent that Hermann—nine years old, speaking three languages, captain of the primary school rowing team, enrolled in university-level mathematics courses, and reading novels larger than his head—wept because he couldn’t speak _four_. He can only assume that Dietrich’s little Charlotte scorns toys and pop-up books alike as they all had before her.

“I’m really sorry, sir,” the cashier says, “but I don’t know what to tell you. You could try the Waterstones ‘round the corner?”

Ah, and that is the rather unfortunate reason Hermann finds himself in the bookstore in the first place: he waited a _tad_ longer than socially appropriate to buy a birthday present for his niece, and— _en route_ from his flat to his bus stop, which will then provide a bus to take him to Dietrich’s ostentatious little townhouse—popped into the first shop he laid his eyes upon. “No, no,” Hermann sighs, because he won't possibly have the time. “I’m very keen on—er—” He clears his throat. “Providing support to local businesses. Do you offer gift certificates?”

“Excuse me,” a woman suddenly says, sidling up alongside Hermann at the counter. Late forties. Carrying a stack of vampire erotica. Not that Hermann recognizes any of the titles, of course—he spotted her browsing through the pink-hued romance aisle when he stumbled in. “I don’t mean to pry, only I overheard, and thought I might help.”

“By all means,” Hermann sighs. “ _Anything_ would do.”

The woman deposits her vampire erotica on the counter, snags the cuff of Hermann’s blazer, and steers him into a section titled, ominously, _Young Adult_. The Young Adult genre means exactly two things to Hermann, which is why he avoided it like the plague: one, sex, and two, rebellion. As both were considered taboo throughout the Gottlieb adolescence, Hermann could only imagine the outrage he’d face if he knowingly passed over such reading material into the hands of young Charlotte. “Oh, no,” Hermann says quickly. “No, no. Perhaps a book of constellations, or—”

But the woman plucks three books from a shelf and hands them out to Hermann. “They’re _very_ popular in my youngest's grade,” she says. “Trust me.”

The covers are blue-hued, glimmering, and terribly _busy_ , featuring what appears to be large extraterrestrial beings and spaceships. Possibly battling the spaceships. Hermann’s heart sinks. The lesser #3 Taboo of the Gottlieb household: _nonsense_ , under which extraterrestrials most certainly fall. “I don't think—” Hermann begins.

The woman shakes the stack at him. “Go on,” she says.

Hermann’s bus is due to arrive any moment. If he misses it, he’ll be late, late and _presentless,_ and the olive branch he’s worked so very hard to extend to Dietrich across a chasm of childhood resentment will surely go up in flames. Hermann can already hear—and is mentally recoiling from—the resulting arguments.

Against his better judgement, Hermann takes the book. “I do hope you’re right,” he says.

Charlotte is as precocious as he expected, and amidst a sea of violin sheet music, a high-end telescope from her grandparents (something _Hermann_ was never even permitted to own at her age), and a delicate antique doll which will surely never see the outside of its box, Hermann’s paltry stack of science fiction looks terribly gauche at first. (Especially since he had to rush the poor cashier at the counter as she gift-wrapped it for him.) “Science fiction,” Dietrich proclaims as Charlotte unwraps it. “How unique, Hermann.”

“They’re quite popular, apparently,” Hermann says. “Er. Among children her age.” He shifts uncomfortably in one of Dietrich’s high-end armchairs. “I did—research.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte says, solemn.

Oh, well. Hermann tried: let no one say he didn't.

* * *

He receives a phone call from his sister a week later, out of the blue, as he’s making his way back from the shops with his groceries. After some awkward juggling of eggs and his cane, he manages to wedge his mobile between his ear and his shoulder so he can properly hear her. “Is something the matter?” he says. “Have I forgotten another party?” Close as they were in their youth, he and Karla don’t make a habit of ‘catching up’ outside of the odd cup of coffee when he feels the urge to visit her in Berlin.

“ _Yes_ ,” she snaps. She swears under her breath in German. “Those damned books you bought.”

Hermann’s milk begins to slip from his reusable bag; by the time he rescued it, he’s missed the bulk of Karla’s grievances, which appear to have been many. Out of all of them, she inherited their mother’s temper the most. Well. Aside from Hermann. “Er,” Hermann says. “The books?”

The issue is this, it turns out: Charlotte liked the books so _terribly much_ that she insisted Karla’s son find and read them as well, and—after Karla tore across several bookstores before she could finally find even a German translation—her son has been talking about them non-stop since. “He’s _apparently_ coming to London for a book signing next week,” she finally says.

“Who is?” Hermann says, placing the milk on the floor to fumble his key from his pocket.

“The bloody author,” Karla says. “Geiszler, or whatever his name is. You’ll be taking them, of course.”

Hermann drops his key. “No, no, no,” he says.

“Yes,” Karla says. “You are _always_ saying you want to spend more time with your nieces and nephews.”

“I wasn’t being _serious_ ,” Hermann says. It’s the sort of thing one’s _meant_ to say. Yes, your baby is very nice to look at and looks nothing like an overripe tomato. Yes, I would love to see another picture of your detestable, unclean housepet. Yes, I really ought to spend more time with my beloved family, Hanukkah and Mother’s Day _surely_ aren’t enough, I love having children around, I certainly don’t cling to my childless bachelorhood with an iron grip. “Please. I can’t. It’s finals season at the university—”

“Take them,” Karla says, sternly, “or I’m forcing you to come on holiday as my babysitter this July. God knows you could use some sun for once.”

She hangs up.

Those _damned_ books, indeed. Hermann shoves his front door open in a blind fury and stalks over his laptop in a similar one to find out when the book signing is even meant to be. He’ll have to play host to preteens for a weekend—though perhaps it’s _worth_ it, if it means he gets off of future unclely duties scot free for at least a little while. What did Karla say his name was? Geyser?

Dr. Newton Geiszler, it turns out. PhD, PhD, PhD—well—six times over, leader in his field of genetic engineering, child prodigy, Berlin born and raised, MIT alumnus, musician, now using his impressive education and set of skills to produce….moderately successful graphic novels for tweens, notable mostly for their strict dedication to being as scientifically accurate as possible.

What on _Earth_ possessed the man?

A New York Times profile on Dr. Geiszler tells Hermann it was a combination of listlessness and ennui; an interview with the man for a smaller, local, American publication tells Hermann it was _a midlife crisis_ , and a side gig to keep himself from getting antsy or tearing his hair out over academia. _So far it’s been successful,_ Geiszler admitted. _And fun._

The article has a photograph of Geiszler attached. Hermann lingers over it for longer than appropriate. When he eventually forces himself to exit out of the window, it’s to send Karla exactly one text: _I would be very happy to do it._

* * *

Newton Geiszler is of a stocky build—a _small_ , stocky build—with ridiculously esoteric tattoos that wind down his forearms, thick Buddy Holly glasses, a crop of wavy brown hair, a healthy amount of greying scruff, and pretty hazel eyes that make Hermann feel a bit funny in his chest all the way from the other side of the bookshop. His array of leather bracelets shake around his sturdy wrists as he writes; he laughs often, his entire face scrunching up with it; he smiles so brilliantly at each nervous preteen that shuffles up to his table that they must be set right at ease. 

“Can we get our books signed,” Karla’s son—a brooding, too-sharp boy of twelve—asks, “or are you just going to watch him through this bookcase all day?”

Hermann snaps up, ramrod straight, and hastily makes to move the books he shoved aside to get a good look at Geiszler back where they belong. “What a ridiculous notion,” he says. He knocks into a copy of Harry Potter with his elbow, and it nearly lands on his foot. “I must say I haven’t—haven’t the foggiest idea where you got it from. I was merely examining these books. Come on, we—ah—ought to get in line.”

The children chat animatedly about Geiszler’s books as they steadily inch forward to Geiszler’s table; Hermann, meanwhile, continues to watch Geiszler. What is it about the man that intrigues him so? His brilliant mind? Hermann spent the previous night poring over every academic journal Geiszler ever published in, making notes in pencil at the margins as if he were back in his graduate school days. He spent the morning flossing his teeth, and styling his hair, and picking out the _perfect_ sweater to wear with the _perfect_ shirt, and—while the children cleaned up their sleeping bags and ate their way through Hermann’s gluten-free bagels for breakfast—found time to bloody polish his shoes. He even bought new _soap_. Hermann doesn’t even do that for the handful of dates he goes out on.

Hermann has questions—dozens of questions—he wanted to ask Geiszler, and they fly from his mind like air from a deflating balloon the moment Geiszler turns his nose-scrunching smile on Hermann and his siblings’ children and says, cheerfully, “Hi!” (Oh, someone help Hermann—he has _freckles_.) “It’s really cool of your dad to bring you guys out here today!”

And so _American_ too, though Hermann can’t deny there’s a certain appeal to the high, scratchiness of his voice. His heart is thumping so terribly loudly in his chest it’s why it takes him as long as he does for Geiszler’s words to sink in—and when they do, it’s with horror. “Oh, _goodness_ , no,” he says. “No, no, they aren’t my—”

“He’s our uncle,” Charlotte says, still so terribly solemn. She places her small stack of books onto the table; her cousin follows suit. “I liked the second book the best. It's very good.”

“I liked the third,” Hermann’s nephew says.

“Cool,” Geiszler says. “Glad to hear it! Who am I making these out to?” Freckles, and tiny little laughter lines at the corners of his eyes. Little metal studs going up the cartilage of one ear. No wedding ring. Geiszler’s Wikipedia page mentioned nothing about a partner—how has no one even _attempted_ to stake a claim on a man such as that yet? Utterly ridiculous. If Hermann had the chance... “Am I doing one for you, too, dude?”

“Hm?” Hermann says. The books have been signed; Geiszler is staring at him. “Oh—no. I haven’t read them, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you,” Geiszler says. He pulls down the first in the series from a stack and flips to the first page. “What's your name?”

“No, _really_ ,” Hermann says, not fancying buying a copy (and hardback, at that, a thirty percent increase in price) of something that will just gather dust on his bookshelf for years, but Geiszler holds his hand up.

“It’s on me,” he says. Then, to Hermann’s surprise—as he pops the lid of a pen off with his startlingly pretty mouth—he _winks_.

“Oh.” Hermann flushes. “Er—” He clears his throat. “It’s—Hermann. Dr. Hermann Gottlieb.”

Geiszler keeps the pen lid clenched between his teeth and pursed lips as he scrawls out a quick inscription. He doesn’t let Hermann read what it says before he slams the cover shut. “Here you are, Dr. Gottlieb,” he says. “You’ll have to tell me your thoughts.”

There’s a strange, flirtatious smile on his face. If Hermann were just a fraction more suave, or perhaps just a fraction less shameless (alongside a fraction more desperate), he may have played at some flirtation of his own and said something like _perhaps over dinner or drinks at my place_. Hermann is none of the above—though he admits an argument could be made for his level of romance-starved desperation—and so he takes up the book with all the stiff-lipped decorum of a schoolmaster and nods, politely, at its author. “Thank you, Dr. Geiszler,” he says.

“Bye, Dr. Gottlieb,” Geiszler says, and winks again.

Hermann doesn’t peek at the inscription until he’s back in the safety of his flat. Geiszler’s signed his name _xx Newt._

He’s also written down a phone number.

**Author's Note:**

> hope everyone's staying healthy and entertained during self-isolation/quarantine! i've been writing so expect more fic to pop up soon...hehehe...
> 
> find me on twitter at hermanngaylieb, and tumblr at hermannsthumb (where i often post ficlets)


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